Learning Curve
by Auldearn
Summary: one lucky rookie gets to ride with Riggs and Murtaugh - Completed!
1. Chapter 1

_I'm still working on my other incomplete piece "The Set Up", but being totally ADD, it helps me to have more than one story going at once! So anyway, I am posting this one as well… It's probably a bit more of an amusing take than I usually do… Thanks to anyone taking the time to read and special thanks to those who have reviewed my stories. It is most appreciated!_

Detective Joe Mitchell was not in a good mood. Well, truth be told – it went far beyond not being in a good mood. More like extremely, royally, totally pissed off. Yeah, that seemed like a much more accurate description of his current disposition. Pissed…very pissed. He shuffled the papers on his desk, his mood growing darker by the moment. As if things weren't bad enough… First Captain Murphy gives him four weeks of desk duty. FOUR weeks! Okay, maybe he had gotten a little carried away with his last case, but shit…he wasn't nearly as quick to pull his gun as _SOME_ of the detectives around here. Yet here he was – the one whose ass was stuck in the squad room. Then to make matters even worse, he had to do all the paperwork for the latest pet project for the LAPD. All of the different divisions were taking in the recent graduates from the police academy and letting them sit in with a detective team for a week. God, the upper brass really came up with some stupid ideas. The chances that most of these rookie patrol officers even had the sense to one day make detective were probably pretty slim. Why have them hanging around Robbery/Homicide, irritating everyone else trying to work? But the powers-that-be certainly never conferred with the men on the street when it came to these things, and now Mitchell was the one having to coordinate the whole damn thing. He had decided Captain Murphy was a sadistic SOB. Murphy knew perfectly well that Mitchell had zero tolerance for the new recruits when they came aboard and these shit-heads were still completely wet behind the ears. He grumbled under his breath again.

"What did you say?"

Mitchell looked up at his equally pissed off, desk-bound partner, Rick Garcia. He waved the question away. "Nothing, nothing. When is the next damn group coming through anyway?"

Garcia looked at his watch. "Right about now." As if on cue, a group of uniformed patrol officers materialized from around the corner. They filed in silently as the detectives they were going to be teamed up began slowly filtering into the room as well. The detectives huddled together, speaking quietly amongst themselves; most of them looking like they would rather be anyplace but here. Needless to say, the majority of them felt the same way that Mitchell did about this particular project. They all stood around as Mitchell flipped through the roster, giving each one their assignments. "Jenkins, you're with Powers and Scopilli; Palmer—Lopez and Sampson; Miller—Walker and Bradley…" He droned on for ten minutes, not bothering to look up from his papers except to hand them their ID's and scowl. "Anderson…" He ran a finger down the page, stopping suddenly, a grin coming to his face. "Hey, Rick," he snickered, "Anderson here is the lucky one assigned to Riggs and Murtaugh." Garcia and Mitchell both dissolved into laughter, their hoots ringing through the conference room.

The young man's eyes grew nervous as they darted back and forth between the two detectives. He swallowed hard, a hand running through his sandy blond hair. "Wha-what's wrong with Riggs and Murtaugh?" he stammered. Mitchell and Davidson ignored him for the moment, too busy still enjoying whatever it was they found so amusing. Finally, Mitchell gave a big sigh, wiping the tears from his eyes as Garcia continued to giggle to himself.

"Ah, kid, nothing's wrong with Murtaugh, but Riggs…" His voice trailed off as he glanced at his partner. "Let's just say you damn well better remember to pick up your required Kevlar."

Grinning, Garcia circled an index finger by his temple. "Total whack job," he replied.

Mitchell slapped a hand down on the desk, laughing again. "Hey, remember the last time Riggs got reprimanded?"

"How can I forget? Drove Murtaugh's car right through that strip mall…damn near killed the suspect they were chasing. "

Mitchell snorted derisively, rolling his eyes. "Shit, Riggs thinks he's still crawling around in the jungle." The two of them began howling with laughter again while the poor patrolman stood there, his expression growing more panicky by the minute.

Mitchell suddenly realized that his partner's laughter had come to an abrupt end. Looking up, his own chuckles faded at the sight of Roger Murtaugh filling the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. By the murderous glare in his eyes, Mitchell guessed he'd been standing there awhile. He stiffened in his chair, returning the stare defiantly, his mouth thinning. Grabbing Anderson's temporary ID, he slapped it into his hand, then gave a hard jerk of his head in Murtaugh's direction. "There's one of your partners," he growled. Anderson pivoted around on his heels, his resolve growing weaker at the sight of the physically intimidating figure glowering before him. By the fury etched in the man's face, he figured this to be Sergeant Riggs. Murtaugh stared past Anderson, his eyes still focused on Mitchell. It was all he could do to contain his anger. Much of the department did think Riggs was a whack job but Mitchell had always been one of the most vocal. Murtaugh knew that Riggs and Mitchell had worked together years ago in vice. It was his guess that something had happened between the two of them but Roger had never pressed for details. And of course, Riggs never volunteered any.

But to already start poisoning the minds of the new officers against a detective with his crap was inexcusable. He stepped into the room and leaned over the desk, his nose inches from Mitchell's. "We WILL discuss this later," he said in a whisper. Then straightening up, he touched Anderson's arm. "Come on, kid. Let's go." The two of them strode down the hallway, Roger ramrod straight, his eyes still glaring.

Anderson ran along side of him, his own expression worried. "Excuse me…" No response. "Excuse me," Anderson repeated, a bit louder this time. Roger turned his head, his thoughts still elsewhere. He came to a sudden stop, Anderson crashing into him. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, sir!" The young man turned red, jamming his hands into his back pockets.

Roger relaxed, a small smile coming to his face. "It's okay. What did you need?"

Anderson looked up from the floor. "My vest. I'm required to wear a vest."

"Oh, right. Let's go check one out for you. What's your name?"

"Greg Anderson." He suddenly straightened up, his demeanor turning serious. For a brief moment, Roger was afraid the boy was gonna salute him.

Roger sighed quietly, thrusting his hand out to shake Greg's. "I'm Sergeant Roger Murtaugh."

A confused look came to Greg's face. "Sergeant Murtaugh? I thought…" His voice trailed off.

"You thought what?"

"Oh, nothing." Greg chewed on his bottom lip. This detective was frightening enough. And he was the sane one? What in God's name would Riggs be like? Greg's spine felt like a column of ice as he followed Murtaugh down the hall.

After what seemed to be many twists and turns, they finally entered into another squad room. This place was huge and Greg already felt hopelessly lost. The squad room was filled with twelve desks, all but two of them empty. At one a pudgy man dressed in an ill-fitted suit was busy pecking away on a computer. He didn't look up, frowning in concentration at the screen, one hand constantly tugging on his necktie. At the other desk sat a younger man, engrossed in a conversation over the phone. He was shaggy haired, his uniform a pair of jeans and a faded grey shirt that had obviously never seen an iron in all of its long life. Greg decided one didn't have to be a detective to figure out that this had to be Riggs. Still on the phone, the man turned around as they entered the room, his piercing blue eyes quickly taking in Greg. He glanced over at Roger, a questioning frown clouding his face, then returned his attention to the phone call. Roger went over to the desk beside Riggs, motioning for the other man to take a seat. His conversation finished, the other detective turned around to face them just as Greg sat down. Once again, he felt that intense gaze examine him.

"Hey, Rog. You finally ask for a new partner?"

Roger didn't bother looking up from the stack of papers he was thumbing through. "Riggs, what did we just talk about this morning?"

"I don't know. It was early." Martin frowned, one hand running through his long hair. "There was still too much blood in my coffee stream."

Heaving a sigh, Roger looked up, one hand gesturing to Greg. "This is Greg Anderson, one of LAPD's new officers. He's gonna be with us for a week."

Riggs's expression lightened up as he stood. "Oh, yeah." He extended his hand. "Sergeant Martin Riggs." Greg jumped to his feet. "Hello, Sergeant Riggs, sir."

One of Martin's brows arched up. "Relax there, Greg."

"Uh, yes sir." Greg sat back down but his wary eyes stared at Martin nervously. Riggs made a mental note of this but rather than pursue it any farther, he leaned over, yanking open his top desk drawer. His lips set into a thin line as his hand pushed junk from one side to the other. Roger looked up, watching as his partner searched one drawer after another. A satisfied grin crossed his face.

"Hey, Riggs, if you're looking for that pack of cigarettes you had hidden, you might as well stop." Riggs jerked his head up, eyes narrowing. Roger looked over at Greg. "He's quitting smoking."

"I've changed my mind," Riggs muttered ominously, a frown creasing his face. Greg shifted in his chair. Now of all times would be when he was trying to quit? Could his luck get any worse?

"What'd ya mean you've changed your mind?!" thundered Roger. The two of them began to argue loudly as Greg looked nervously over at the guy on the computer. He didn't even bother turning around. Then without warning, Riggs suddenly dropped to his knees and crawled under his desk. Greg leaned forward in his chair, his eyes widening in both curiosity and fear. What was it Mitchell had said about the jungle? Oh, to be in the safe confines of the academy again. Even Roger paused in mid-yell, bending over the top of the desk, staring at Martin's boots poking out from underneath.

"AH-HA!" Riggs yelled triumphantly, leaping to his feet, brandishing a pack of Marlboro Reds in one hand.

"Riggs! You son-of-a-bitch!" Roger threw the papers he was holding down. "I can't believe you. You had a secret pack taped underneath the goddamn desk?!"

Riggs snickered as he knocked a smoke out. "Believe me, Rog," he said, "the Boy Scouts got nothing on me." Ignoring the "No Smoking" signs posted everywhere, Riggs lit the cigarette, sucking in the nicotine greedily. "Oh, yes…all is right with the world again." He gave a satisfied grin and blew a large smoke ring in his partner's direction. Roger frowned in disgust, shaking his head as he sat back down. "Hey! Hey!" Riggs continued." Up and at 'em. No time to be sitting on our butts!"

Roger looked up wearily. "What are you talking about?"

"Remember I was on the phone? We've got a case."

"Well, shit. Why didn't you say that in the first place." Roger got up; motioning to Greg who rose to his feet, face still worried.

"A case already?" He tried to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Riggs shook his head, throwing an arm around the man's shoulders. "Greg, Greg, Greg…there are many things the City of Angels lacks. Fine cultural events, women without breast augmentation, clean air…But if there's one thing we do have, it's homicides."

Greg glanced over his shoulder one last time as Riggs hustled him out of the squad room. His eyes finally made contact with the man who had been working so diligently on his computer. The detective gave him a pitying look, mouthed "Good Luck" silently then returned to his screen. Greg decided this must be how it felt for a lamb being led to slaughter.


	2. Chapter 2

_Another chapter – this one is coming along rather quickly….Thanks for the review bluedragon…. It is most appreciated!_

"That's him over there."

Riggs, Murtaugh and Anderson followed the patrolman's raised arm to a solitary figure leaning up against a black and white unit. The young man was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his eyes staring blankly out in space, hands knotted together.

"Pretty shook up," the cop continued. "He was on a morning jog when he stumbled over the body."

"A jog?" Riggs pursed his lips together. "Shit, didn't he catch the smog index this morning? Never shoulda left the house."

The patrolman just shrugged. By the size of the belly overflowing the top of his pants, exercise of any form had never been on the top of his 'to-do' list. Roger flipped open his notepad.

"Okay, we'll go get a statement. You come with me, Anderson." The two of them took off in the direction of the black and white while Riggs glanced around.

"Where's the body?"

"Around the corner."

Riggs followed the roly-poly officer over to the side of a nearby building where his eyes fell upon the covered form. The cop gave a shake of his head, grimacing. "It's a fucking mess."

"Any ID on him?"

"Nope, and you won't be able to tell anything from that corpse."

The patrolman walked back to his car as Riggs went over to the body, peeling back the sheet. He clicked his tongue as he viewed the sight in front of him. The uniform hadn't lied. Fucking mess was an understatement. The victim was lying on his back, legs crumpled up underneath him, arms splayed out, hands near his head. He had been shot in the face numerous times at close range, leaving nothing for an immediate physical ID. It looked like something had chewed his head up and spat it back out. "No need to rent horror movies when you have this job," Martin muttered under his breath. "Well, let's see what we can get from the neck down at least." Whipping out his notepad, his sharp eyes went over the body from head to toe as he jotted down notes. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps, standing up as Murtaugh and Anderson approached.

"What have you got?"

Riggs shook his head. "Not much at this point." He moved aside to let Roger and Greg get a look at the body.

Roger frowned, one hand rubbing his forehead. "Shit, they did quite a job on him."

Riggs nodded in agreement, glancing over at the two. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the younger man's pale face, the slight tremble shaking his body. Reaching over, Riggs grabbed him on the forearm. "Hey, maybe we better--" It was all he was able to get out. Roger turned around towards them just as Greg stumbled backwards a step, breaking free from Martin. Leaning over, he threw up everywhere.

Letting out a surprised bellow, Roger jumped to the side as did Riggs, but neither were able to completely escape the remains of Greg's breakfast. "Shit!" Roger yelled, his gaze focusing on his tan loafers. Loafers now covered in vomit. "I just bought these!" His voice grew even louder. "Do you know how much these cost?"

Greg clapped a hand over his mouth, staring up at Roger. His face was still paper white as he gulped in the hazy morning air in a vain attempt to calm his stomach. He groaned out loud, utterly humiliated. "Oh, God…Oh, I'm—I'm so sorry…"

Ducking his head down low, Riggs bit his lip but the laugh that was building up inside of him spilled out anyway.

Roger shot a smoldering stare in his partner's direction. "What's so goddamn funny?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry. It's just…" Riggs shook his head as he pointed at his own splattered boots. "K-Mart, blue light special." He chuckled again. "I keep telling you there are advantages to dressing like me."

Roger stared at Riggs, hands clenched tightly at his side. If it weren't for the fact that Martin could kick his ass up and down the street, Roger would have tried to wring his neck right then and there. Instead he muttered, "I'm going to get a napkin from the car." He spun on his heel and headed away without another word.

Greg turned away, groaning as Roger disappeared. "I can't believe this." He sighed as he sat down on the curb, cradling his head. He didn't think it would be possible to feel like a bigger idiot than he was feeling at that particular moment. So much for his brilliant career in law enforcement; maybe it was time to rethink his choice of employment.

His head swiveled around as Riggs suddenly came up from behind, patting his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry. Roger will get over it. That was nothing compared to the slimy hairball he found in his shoe last week…" Martin gave a shudder. "Now you REALLY want to talk disgusting…"

"It's not just that." Greg heaved a glum sigh. "I mean…crap, I'm supposed to be a cop and that's the whole way I react to a dead body…"

"Hey, it was your first time. Don't worry. It happens to lots of rookies."

Greg looked up, eyes suddenly turning hopeful. "Really?"

"Sure." Riggs sat down next to him. He fumbled through his pockets a moment, extracting a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Greg who shook his head.

"I don't smoke."

"Good for you. Nasty habit. I'd quit if I didn't like it so damn much." He tucked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and cupping one hand around the end, quickly lit it.

"What was it like for you?"

Riggs turned his head, squinting at Greg through the smoke. "What?"

"Y' know, your first time."

"My first time?" Riggs gave a grin. "Well…like many youngsters, it was in the back of a car… Cute little blond…"

Greg laughed in spite of himself. "Come on, you know what I mean." He pointed back towards the body. "What was it like the first time you saw something like that?"

Riggs rubbed a hand across his jaw, eyes pensive. He sat there in silence, lost deep in thought over the question. After a few minutes he came to the realization that he couldn't remember. He didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Although he found it all a bit troubling, he decided not to put too fine a point on it. Riggs frowned, trying to shake the feeling. "Y' know," he finally said with a shrug, "that was a hell of a long time ago." Before Greg could pursue the line of questioning any further, Roger reappeared from around the corner. Riggs rose quickly to his feet. "All cleaned up?" he snickered.

Roger gave a small nod. "As best as possible."

Martin stared down at his partner's stained shoes. "Hmmm…looks like it was bacon and eggs."

Roger shot a silent look full of daggers at Riggs then turned to Greg, his expression growing calmer. "I shouldn't have jumped on your shit like that," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, we'll pretend it never happened."

"Thanks." Greg gave a grateful smile.

Roger turned to face Riggs. "You finished here?"

Nodding, Martin took one last drag in the cigarette then ground the butt under his heel. "Yep." His eyes narrowed, turning serious. "Let's go catch bad guys."

Greg arrived early the next morning at Robbery/Homicide. After yesterday's vomiting episode, he was eager to make a new start of things. He wasn't exactly sure how but he figured this would be as good a way to start as any. After having been directed through the maze of hallways, Greg entered into the busy squad room only to find Riggs already at his desk. He was on the phone again and the piles of papers surrounding him seemed to have doubled in size since yesterday. Riggs nodded in greeting then glanced down at his watch, an eyebrow rising in surprise as he noted the time. Greg grinned, shrugging his shoulders as he sat down across from Martin. A puzzled look came to his face as he watched the detective at work. Was it his imagination or was that the same wrinkled shirt he had been wearing yesterday? Yes, he decided, it had to be. Greg didn't know quite what to make of that.

Hanging up the phone, Riggs leaned back in his chair, feet atop the desk, hands crossed behind his head. "So…trying to kiss ass now?"

Greg nodded. No sense in pretending otherwise. "I was hoping to beat everyone in, but I guess you're a morning person."

Riggs straightened back up, grabbing the mug on his desk. "No," he grumped, "I hate mornings."

"Why are you here so early then?"

Shrugging, Martin gulped down some coffee. "New case, lots to do. You gotta get in early to catch those nasty worms." He waved towards a corner of the room. "There's battery acid over there if you're in need of a colonic."

"Okay, thanks." Greg went over to the coffeemaker, sighing as he filled the Styrofoam cup. He got the distinct feeling he had irritated Riggs already this morning. Lovely… Murtaugh yesterday…and now Riggs today. Well, at least he was an equal opportunity nuisance. Greg took a sip. Grimaced. Quickly dumped in about ten spoonfuls of sugar. When he went back over, he discovered Riggs had cleared off a corner of his desk to eat breakfast. Well, breakfast as a term to be used loosely. He was digging into a container of what appeared to be leftover nachos piled high with chili, jalapeño peppers and covered in a mountain of congealed cheese. It looked like something from a toxic waste dump. Greg grimaced again, his stomach doing a series of backwards somersaults.

Riggs motioned to the food. "Want some?"

"No thanks." Greg shook his head in bewilderment. "You actually eat that kind of stuff for breakfast?"

Martin looked down at the nachos for a long moment. "Well, sure…Carbs from the nachos, calcium from the cheese, protein from the chili…and, hey, the jalapeños are a vegetable. It's the complete food pyramid." He frowned slightly as Greg shrugged, his expression unconvinced.

"Good morning."

The two of them looked up as Roger entered the squad room. Greg was relieved to see at least he had a new set of clothes on.

"Good morning, Sergeant Murtaugh."

Riggs just grunted, taking another sip of coffee. Roger hung his jacket over the chair, noting his partner's monosyllabic greeting. Oh God, he thought. Was it gonna be one of those days? A file suddenly sailed through the air, landing atop Roger's desk.

"Got the ME's report."

"Already?" Roger's voice was surprised. "How in the hell did you manage that?"

"I'm a charming kind of guy, Rog. Got our DOA pushed through first."

Roger gave a small smile. "I didn't realize you had such an effect on the ole Doc."

"My appeal knows no bounds. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

"Hmm-hmmm." Sitting down at his desk, Roger opened the file as Greg stood to look over his shoulder.

"Careful there, Greg," Riggs called out. "Y' know they've got pictures with that report."

Greg gave an embarrassed smile as Roger glanced up at him. "I'm okay this time, really."

Roger frowned, eyes squinting. "I hope so because this suit is new."

Grinning, Martin took the last swig of his coffee. "Don't let him rattle ya, Greg. He's got plenty more suits where that one came from." He glanced down at a piece of paper in front of him. "Anyway, we've got an ID. Christopher Duncan, age 43. His prints were in the system."

"He had a record?"

"Nah…clean as a whistle. Worked for some big time tech firm. All the employees were extensively background checked and fingerprinted."

Riggs jumped to his feet, coming over to stand on the other side of Roger. Leaning over, he motioned for Roger to hand him the file. He quickly flipped through the crime scene photos, pulling one out of the pack. "Here, check this out. Take a good look at how he's lying there. How do you think he got into that position?"

Roger concentrated on the snapshot a moment, chin cradled in his hand. He frowned. "It looks like he would have been on his knees."

"That's right." Riggs began to pace back and forth, that manic glint he always got when getting into a case coming to his eyes. Even after all this time partnered with him, the intensity of it could still be surprising to Roger. And by the way Greg was staring at the detective; he was thinking the same thing. "Y' see," continued Martin, talking more to himself than anyone else, "even though his wallet was taken, it looks like he was down on his knees, legs crossed, hands behind his head…A couple of bullets to the head…Doesn't sound like some street mugger to me."

Roger chewed on the tip of a pencil, his other hand flipping through the photos. "So, what you're saying is, you think we have a professional hit instead of a random mugging turned violent."

"Yep. Now we just need to find out why someone wanted him dead."

"You said he worked for a high tech business firm. We need to find out exactly what it is they do over there. Maybe it's got something to do with that."

"Could be. I've already checked and his boss has been out of town on a business meeting for a week but he'll be back in the office this afternoon. We need to pay him a visit." Reaching into the file again, Martin pulled out another piece of paper and handed it over to Roger. "Of course there is also the chance that it could be drug related. The toxicology report showed his system was swimming in coke." He suddenly turned towards the rookie patrolman. "And, Greg, just in case you were wondering, we are not talking the soda pop kind." Riggs strode over to the coffee pot, refilled his mug. "Got his address for us to go check out." He came back to his desk, gesturing to the papers piled on it. "I've already pulled copies of his credit card, phone and bank statements for us to go through. Both his parents are deceased, but there's an older sister living in Portland. She's on her way down now."

Roger glanced up. "Christ, Riggs. How have you already gotten all of this done?"

Martin threw his hands out to his side. "There are some advantages to being an insomniac. Not ONLY do I get the jump on the bad guys, I also get to see the worst B movies ever. I mean the shit they have playing at that time…"

Roger opened his mouth to say something then changing his mind, shut it abruptly. Gave a shake of his head. "You've got his home address, Riggs?"

Martin shuffled through a stack of papers for a minute then said, "Yep, here it is." Folding the slip of paper up, Riggs shoved it into his front pocket, an eager grin coming to his face.

"Okay, boys and girls, time to go earn our paychecks and the eternal gratitude of our fearless leader, Captain Murphy."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the reviews guys! _

"Congratulations! I see you've managed to stay in one piece so far."

It was early morning and Greg Anderson was standing just inside the lobby of the Parker Center flanked on each side by Riggs and Murtaugh. The three of them turned to face the direction that the comment had issued forth from.

Greg frowned slightly as he viewed the smirking Detective Mitchell standing by the glass double doors. It hadn't taken long for him to realize just how much he disliked that guy. All week, every time he had passed Mitchell in the halls, the detective had had some sort of smug remark to make. Greg smiled. "Oh, things are going great!" he enthused.

"Yeah? Well, ya still got two days left."

Mitchell slid past Martin, throwing a pointed look in his direction. "How's it going, Riggs? Shoot any unsuspecting bystanders lately?" Mitchell snickered. "Or maybe you're just on the hunt for VC?"

Martin smiled back. His right hand came to rest on a hip, the casual movement pushing back his jacket, exposing the Beretta tucked into his waistband.

"Naah…" Martin shook his head, his eyes turning dark, the smile disappearing. "Haven't you heard? I'm just shooting fat-assed LAPD detectives who ask me annoying questions."

Mitchell glared, his smirk faltering. Both Roger and Greg took a step back as Riggs continued to stare down the other detective like a snake about to pounce on its next meal. Martin noted with great satisfaction, the genuine fear in Mitchell's eyes as he quickly scurried down the hall like the little rat that he was.

Roger shook his head as he watched the detective disappear. "What in the hell is WITH that guy?"

Riggs shrugged, his eyes still hard. "It doesn't matter."

"But something must have happened between the two of you."

"I SAID it doesn't matter."

"Okay, okay," sighed Roger. He knew better than to pursue the subject any further. Besides it was best to keep concentrated on their investigation.

The three of them had spent two solid days pouring through the paper trail that had made up the DOA's life. And although it was a bit irritating to have to drag along a newbie, both men had to agree it was rather nice to have the extra manpower – especially for the boring grunt work. An interview with the sister had yielded nothing of interest, but a couple of his co-workers had indicated they thought there had been drug use, a fact already corroborated by the ME's toxicology report. Then last night as Martin was going through the man's cell phone records, he came across numerous calls to a certain restaurant. He had called Roger at home, telling him in an enthusiastic voice how he remembered the place from his days as a narc detective.

It was the place of business for a drug dealer by the name of Michael Gadson, aka "Fat Daddy". And boy, wait until Rog got a look at this guy, because "Fat Daddy" didn't even begin to describe him and besides—At that point, Roger had cut his partner off, growling into the phone that, yes, that was all very exciting but goddamn it, in case he had forgotten to look at his watch, it was one in the morning and would Martin please shut up and go to sleep. Fumbling around in the dark, Roger had hung up the phone, groaning as he threw the covers over his head.

Now the next morning, the three of them left the squad room, piling into Roger's car, heading towards the restaurant in question. Riggs briefed them on what he knew about Michael Gadson's operations then lapsed into silence, staring out the car window, the fingers of one hand drumming on his knee.

As they drove, Roger occasionally threw sidelong glances at Martin, trying to assess the situation. His encounter with Mitchell had left Riggs in a foul mood that much was certain. Something that was never good, but could be a dangerous tinderbox when it coincided with having to question suspects. And now since Greg was in the car with them, Roger didn't have much of an opportunity to try and talk Martin down a little. Roger glanced into the rearview mirror, checking on their passenger. Greg's nose was deep in the case's growing stack of paperwork, brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed the information. If he was aware of Riggs's current disposition and the potential hazards that came with it, he gave no indication. Roger returned his attention to the road.

Following Martin's instructions, he made the next light, turning left onto a side street. After about ten minutes, the neighborhood began to grow seedier. With every passing block, the buildings' states of deterioration became worse, the people loitering on the street corners looking more and more like the criminal element. Roger could feel his police radar go on full alert as he took it all in. Martin was observing their surroundings as well, but rather than the tension Roger was feeling, a small smile was playing along the edges of his mouth.

"My ole stomping grounds," he murmured. Roger turned his head, surprised by the wistful sound underlining his partner's voice.

"What, you miss this?"

Martin hitched his shoulders slightly. "Sometimes…" He added hastily, "I mean don't get me wrong. Y' know how I feel about working with you. But I was in Narcotics a long time." His tone hardened slightly. "I was a great dope cop."

Roger nodded. No one had ever argued against that fact. The problem had been, left to his own devices, LAPD had feared Riggs would end up burning down half the city or at the very least, most of the department before self-destructing himself. "Doesn't matter what division you're in, Martin. You're a great detective."

Martin's expression seemed to lighten up a bit. Roger wasn't sure if it was a genuine reaction or simply for his benefit, but hell, he'd take whatever he could get. He followed Riggs's pointed finger to another street on the right then spotted the restaurant halfway down the block on the left. Did he say restaurant? Rat-infested dive was more like it. At first glance, Roger thought it was an abandoned building. Closed blinds hung in the one small front window and the only people in sight were a group of older teenagers hanging around the corner. With their bandanas and loose baggy pants—God, thought Roger, when WILL that look go out of style?—they hardly looked the part of fine upstanding citizens.

He felt his stomach tighten as their heads turned around, staring as Roger eased into a nearby parking space. Predatory grins creased their faces as they blatantly looked the car over, circling slowly like a group of sharks. Roger wondered briefly what Trish's reaction would be if he had to tell her the car had been stripped and left sitting on cinder blocks. He knew it wouldn't be a good one. Roger peered out the front windshield.

"Riggs, I don't know about this…if anything happens to this car, Trish will have my ass in a sling."

Martin grinned. "Rog, you've gotta stop being such a worry wart. You're shaving valuable years off of your life."

Roger snorted loudly. "Do you know what Trish'll be like if this car is messed up? Having years shaved off of my life would be a blessing."

"You're being a killjoy, Roger. This will be fun."

"Fun?"

"Sure. Come on, it's our duty to give Greg the full tour of the seamy underbelly of our fair city." Riggs swiveled around in his seat, looking back at Greg who had been sitting quietly throughout their conversation. "You want to see your first scummy drug lord, don't ya?"

A smile spread over Greg's face as he nodded his head. "You bet!" He had to admit his time with the two LAPD detectives had turned out much better than he had first feared. In fact, he was actually enjoying it. Riggs turned back around to face his partner.

"See," he said, gesturing with one hand, "we can't let our new friend down." Martin's eyes widened slightly as they began to fill up with that scary gleam.

"It'll be fine…" His voice turned soothing, calm. "…Trust me."

Wow, Greg thought to himself, my first entry into the drug world. He squinted, trying unsuccessfully to peer through the dark gloom that filled every corner of the restaurant. So far, he was not impressed. After a minute, his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, but his nose was assaulted by a vicious smell that seemed a combination of vomit, old shoes, and body odor. He turned at the strangled noise coming from the back of Roger's throat.

"Christ, Riggs…It smells like a city dump in here."

"Hey, successful drug dealers don't always operate out of the fancy dance clubs, y' know."

Roger pinched his nose with one hand as he glanced around. "All's the pity."

"Oh, so sorry," Martin muttered, rolling his eyes. "I guess dope cops don't get to run in the fancy circles that homicide detectives do." A smile reappeared on his face as he gleefully rubbed his hands together. "Ahhh…Let the games begin."

Riggs strode up to the bar, humming the Olympics theme music under his breath, Roger and Greg a step behind. Clustered at one end were about half a dozen men of various ages. Judging from their appearance they had died from alcohol poisoning years ago and had been propped up in their chairs by management to keep the place looking busy. Behind the bar, watching the TV, sat a large, rough looking man, low sloping forehead, beady little eyes glittering from beneath bushy dark brows. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing numerous prison tattoos decorating his beefy arms. Perfect, thought Roger, just perfect. I'm sure he'll be very cooperative.

Martin placed the palms of his hands on top of the battered bar top, leaning over it slightly. "Excuse me."

The bartender turned his head around, looking mightily annoyed at having his program interrupted. He rose to his feet, lumbering over to Riggs. "What?"

Martin gave an easy grin. "Hi. Martin Riggs here to see Michael Gadson." His tone was as nonchalant as if he were coming in for a dental appointment. The bartender stared at him for a long moment, the two furry caterpillars attached over his eyes furrowing downward into a scowl. "No."

Martin's smile remained fixed in place. "We go way back. Just tell him it's Martin Riggs and he'll see me."

The bartender seemed unmoved by Riggs's proclamation of friendship. Instead the scowl deepened; those little piggy eyes of his growing even smaller.

"I don't give a rat's ass what your name is. The answer is no."

Martin nodded his head, his face sincere. "I understand your position, really I do." He hesitated briefly. "Y' see, the problem is, I'm not very good at taking no for an answer."

Roger tensed slightly. He could hear the faintest edge begin to creep into Riggs's voice. His tension multiplied a thousand-fold as the bartender raised a hand to Martin's chest, giving a push.

"Get out. Now."

When Riggs didn't move, the bartender leaned in even closer. Suddenly, Riggs's hands flew up and using the man's own forward momentum, sent his head crashing down onto the wooden bar top. He reared back up, eyes dazed, blood running down from the gash now across his forehead. Despite the pain etched on his face, he made a grab for Riggs, who deflected it quickly with one hand as the other one wrapped tightly around his throat.

Roger turned around; defenses at the ready, looking to see if anyone else was coming forward, but no one appeared. The men at the end of the bar watched with vague interest, but made no attempt to leave their precious barstools. He looked to his right, his gaze catching Greg. Greg's shocked, bug-eyed stare jumped back and forth from Roger to Martin. Roger groaned inwardly. He had a feeling this wasn't what the department had in mind to show these rookies. Looking away from Greg, he focused his attention back on his partner.

The bartender was standing very still, a low gargled noise rolling out from his open mouth. Martin glowered at him, tightening his grip. "Now, if you would please go and tell Mr. Gadson that Martin Riggs is here to see him."

The bartender nodded, eyes blinking rapidly. Riggs released his stranglehold. The man stumbled backwards, one hand rubbing his throat, shooting a baleful stare at Riggs before disappearing into the back. As soon as he was gone, Roger came up behind Riggs, grabbing him by the elbow. Martin turned around, a perplexed look coming over his face as Roger pulled him aside, his manner urgent.

"What?"

"WHAT?" Roger's tone was incredulous. "Damn it, Riggs!" He dropped his voice down to a whisper. "You have got to cut that shit out." His eyes went over to nearby Greg, who quickly turned away, pretending to watch the TV. He had a pretty good idea what was going on. He also knew it would be best to stay as far away as possible. "Remember," continued Roger, "We have someone with us. Someone that we're SUPPOSED to be showing how detectives work on cases. And at the academy, they definitely tell you NOT to do what you just did."

"Really?" Martin chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I must have slept through that lecture."

Roger ground his teeth together, trying to ignore his increasing blood pressure.

"Try and follow proper procedure…Just this week, okay?"

"Okay, okay…Geez, you're gonna give yourself a heart attack."

"No, Martin. You're the one that's gonna give me a heart attack."

Martin sighed. Then his expression hardened. "I don't know why you want to mislead the kid. Half the bullshit they teach you at the academy don't mean shit once you're out on the streets and you know that." He jerked a thumb in Greg's direction. "And the sooner he realizes that, the better off he'll be."

Roger was silent for a moment. He knew, of course, that Martin was right. But it wasn't their duty to teach that lesson to Greg. He'd learn soon enough.

"Look, he's smart. He'll figure it out on his own. Right now, let's just get through this assignment without attracting any undue attention from the upper brass, okay?"

"Fine," muttered Riggs.

They turned around as the bartender suddenly reappeared. He was holding a washcloth to his bloody forehead, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He glared at Riggs, eyes shining with pain and fury. "Mr. Gadson will see you now."

A satisfied smile stretched over Martin's face. "See, you just have to know how to ask." He snorted. "I should be the one teaching at the academy."

Roger clutched at his chest at the thought of a police force full of Martin Riggs. "You really ARE trying to give me a heart attack," he mumbled as they followed the bartender back.


	4. Chapter 4

They followed the bartender down a wide dimly lit hallway before stopping in front of a large door at the far end. Unfortunately, the smell seemed no better back here than it had been up front. Roger glanced around nervously. The combined stench and enclosed quarters was enough to make anyone claustrophobic and seeing that there were no other exits, he was beginning to feel like a trapped rat. Stealing a quick look over at his partner, he saw that the younger detective's expression seemed completely unconcerned. Roger tried to relax a bit, remembering that Martin used to have dealings with this man back when he was in Narcotics. Obviously, he felt Michael Gadson wasn't a threat to them and he had learned to trust Riggs and his intuition. After all, what choice did he have? The bartender quickly opened the door. "Go on in." He stared down at the floor as the three men filed into the room, then shut the door behind them.

As they entered the room, Greg somehow managed not to gasp. Looking at the sight before him, his startled brain remembered what Riggs had called the drug dealer. And as Riggs had also stated, the nickname Fat Daddy didn't even come close. Greg had never seen anything quite like this man, at least not outside of a circus. He was sitting behind a desk, resting on a sofa because there was no office chair wide enough to contain all that bulk. Even the sofa looked squashed and out of proportion. A smile broke out over the man's broad face as he looked at them. "I'll be damned…It really is you, Riggs. After my bartender told me what happened, I figured it couldn't be anyone else."

"It has been a long time," Martin replied with a grin. "I see you're looking healthy as ever."

Michael Gadson pouted. "I've just lost twenty pounds."

Riggs tilted his head to one side, eyes squinting in concentration. "Oh yeah…It DOES look like you've lost one of your chins. Congratulations."

Gadson's pout turned doleful, the bottom lip sticking out even further. "Well, I guess it's nice to see some things never change." He sighed, a frown crossing his face." I didn't realize you were still with the force. You haven't been around in a long time and then I heard something about you leaving Narcotics." He paused briefly. "What happened?"

A thin smile came over Martin's face as he casually rested a butt cheek on the edge of Gadson's desk. "Oh," he said, his expression hardening ever so slightly, "… Shit happened." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I always come back around"—Riggs' smile widened into a big grin—"You know how much I miss seeing you."

Gadson suddenly burst into laughter, a phenomenon that was fascinating in a grotesque sort of way. Even after he quit laughing, the rolls of fat covering his body continued to shake, like the aftershocks following an earthquake. Hmmm, thought Greg to himself, now he really understood that description of Santa as a bowl full of jelly. Somehow, he had never pictured it as so disgusting. Settling down to a slight chuckle, Gadson looked up at Riggs. "Y' know, I always did feel the love when you were around. It is nice to see you in these parts again. You always helped to keep my life interesting."

"That's what I'm here for."

A puzzled expression took over Gadson's smile. "So, what exactly are you here for?" He looked at the two men flanking Riggs. "And who are your friends?"

"Please excuse my bad manners. This is my partner, Detective Murtaugh and this is Officer Greg Anderson. We're here on a murder investigation."

Gadson's eyes widened. "Murder?"

"That's right." Riggs pulled out a small photo from his shirt pocket, holding it in front of Gadson. "Christopher Duncan."

Reaching out, Gadson took the picture, holding it a moment between two sausage-like fingers before handing it back to Riggs. With a shake of his head, he said, "Don't know him."

"Well, this _is_ from his driver's license photo and you know how shitty they can be. I'd show you the morgue pictures, but trust me; they wouldn't be of much help." Riggs put the photo back into his shirt pocket.

"You're sure you've never seen him before?" asked Roger.

Gadson nodded.

"Well, that's odd," injected Riggs," 'cause he made a hell of a lot of calls to this place."

"Maybe he liked to eat here."

Riggs rolled his eyes. "Please…the last time this 'restaurant' actually served something that wasn't purchased in grams, Southern California was nothing but fucking orange groves." Martin's voice turned serious. "What happened? Duncan owe you money? "

"I believe all that long hair must be interfering with your hearing, Riggs... I SAID I don't know the man."

Riggs leaned over the desk, eyes narrowing. "Who are you trying to fool here? We've looked thru the DOA'S financial records. He was in debt up to his eyeballs, he had enough coke in his system to keep half of Hollywood buzzing and he called this lovely place of establishment on a regular basis."

Gadson shrugged. "Could just be coincidence."

"Coincidence?" Riggs shook his head. "No such thing in a cop's world." He glanced at his watch. "I guess we'll be on our way. It's almost your feeding time and although I'd love to stay and watch the show, unfortunately, we do have other places to go."

"What a shame. Do come back, Riggs, when you have more time to stay and chat."

Riggs lifted himself off the desk, smiling as he headed for the door. "Don't worry. I have a feeling you'll be seeing more of me."

"Ahh…just like the good ole days."

"So do you think Gadson was lying?" The three men were just pulling back into the police parking lot when Greg posed the question. Riggs and Murtaugh both glanced back at him.

"Of course he was," muttered Riggs.

"How do you know that?"

Martin stared at the rookie for a long moment before finally shrugging his shoulders. "Everybody lies to the cops, whether they're guilty or not."

Roger nodded in agreement. "I think it must be a national past time."

Martin laughed as they got out of the car. "Yeah…if you want to be loved and respected, join the Fire Department, 'cause it ain't gonna happen with the LAPD."

Looking at Greg's crestfallen expression, Roger felt a sharp pang of sympathy hit deep inside him. Despite all his years on the force, he could still remember how it was when he had first put on his uniform; the pride he had felt on his first day of riding patrol. Even though he found out soon enough what a cop's world was really like, he didn't want to take the anticipation and excitement away from Greg just as he was getting started.

Roger gave a smile. "Look, being a cop isn't easy, but despite all the bullshit, it's an important position. You don't always get the appreciation, but you can't let that stop you from doing the job." He gave the young man a pat on the back. "See you tomorrow morning."

Riggs stood silently, hip cocked to one side, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Greg left. After a minute he turned to face his partner, eyebrows angled down in bewilderment. "What was THAT all about?"

"Oh, nothing… See you tomorrow."

Roger was smiling widely as he hung up the phone. "Hey, Riggs—good news."

"What? Trish's mother not coming in for her bi-annual visit?"

"Oh, shit…" Roger's enthusiastic grin crumbled away as he glanced at his desk calendar. "That's still almost a month away. Why the fuck did you have to remind me?"

Martin snickered. "Cause I just love to see that look on your face. Man, you'd think you were taking that final walk to the electric chair."

"Ha, ha," Roger growled. "So glad I can keep you amused."

"Oh come on, Rog. She's not that bad."

"Hmph… She doesn't mind you. You're not married to her daughter." Roger shuddered. "Please let's change the subject. I'd rather discuss the murder investigation."

"So, you'd rather talk about the rapidly decaying state of our fine city than your mother-in-law?" Martin threw his hands up into the air as he took in Roger's glare. "Okay, you win. Besides, we don't need to let Greg know all about your personal problems, do we?" He pointed to the phone. "What was the call about?"

"Forensics. They pulled a print off of the victim's eye glasses."

Riggs straightened up in his chair. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"Damn, I love modern technology."

"And it gets better. It was a near perfect print. They were able to get a hit off of it." Roger looked down at his scribbled notes. "Matched up to one Bernard Simmons."

"BERNARD?" Martin's face curled up as if he had just bit into a lemon. "Ewww…sounds scary." His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"Well, apparently Mr. Simmons has a rap sheet even longer than your list of reprimands. Sounds like a lead to me. They're sending everything over to us right away."

As if on cue, the fax suddenly whirled into life, spitting out paper from its nearby resting spot. Martin looked over his shoulder at the regurgitating machine. "Hey, Greg, that's probably our stuff. How about get it…and while you're up, grab that bag of chips off of MacCaskey's desk. I'm starving and he needs to watch his cholesterol level anyway."

"Sure thing." A minute later, Greg deposited both items onto Riggs's cluttered desktop. Snatching the bag, Riggs ripped it open, shoving a handful into his mouth while flipping through the faxes, Greg still standing beside him. He stopped suddenly, eyes widening.

"Omhh schhmidd," he mumbled loudly, trying to talk around the mouthful of junk food as he pointed emphatically to the papers.

"What is it, Riggs?" Roger asked, eyes rolling to one side. "You're spitting out chips everywhere. It's disgusting, man."

Greg looked over Martin's shoulder. "Oh, wow," he murmured, looking back up at Roger. "It's the bartender."

Grabbing his mug, Riggs managed to wash down the remaining chips with a swig of cold coffee. "I am LOVING life today!" he yelled out, holding up the mug shot for Roger to see. It was indeed the bartender from yesterday. He had been wearing a beard at the time, and his hair was longer, but there was no mistaking those beady little eyes shining out as he glowered into the camera. "We got him, Rog!" His voice rose in triumph. "We got him!" Jumping to his feet, Martin grabbed his Beretta from the desktop. He was practically bouncing in pure glee as he tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans. "Ahh, yes…" he murmured, his grin widening. "I do believe I detect the sweet smell of victory in the air."

"Really? I just thought that was the lingering odor from your damn burritos," grumped Roger, putting on his shoulder holster.

Riggs just gave a sad shake of his head. "Y' know, Rog, you gotta quit hanging around me. You're really turning into a smart-ass."

Roger clutched the armrest of the passenger car door in a death grip, narrowed eyes watching the landscape race by. How in God's name had Riggs managed to talk him into driving over to the suspect's residence? He tried to remember how the conversation had gone but all he could concentrate on was the traffic that Riggs was whipping in and out of like some crazed video game. Roger turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Greg, who as usual, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. A wide grin was plastered across his face as if nothing were wrong.

Sighing, Roger faced front. Oh, the folly of youth… or maybe he'd watched so many damn TV shows, he believed this WAS the way cops were suppose to drive. Roger's thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he found himself thrown forward, head nearly cracking on the dashboard. "SHIT!" He scrambled back up as the car fishtailed, tires squealing.

Martin gripped the steering wheel as he buzzed around another vehicle. "Damn Sunday drivers," he muttered, glancing into the rearview mirror at the sound of a large thump from behind his seat. "Greg, Greg," he tsked, "Remember… You should always wear your seatbelt."

Roger scowled, looking over his shoulder. "You alright back there?"

A muffled affirmative drifted up from the floorboard. Roger turned around again, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. "Martin, please try not to kill the rookie."

"Right-O, boss man." Riggs chuckled to himself. "Don't worry, we're almost there."

Roger stared out the car window, his own expression turning even more troubled. "Somehow that really doesn't put me at ease."

Ten minutes later, they pulled into a parking space on a small side street. Facing Bernard Simmons' building, Roger took in the decrepit apartment complex with its faded chipped paint and rusted ironwork. Thick clumps of weeds grew in the broken front pavement.

"Guess he doesn't make much tip money."

Riggs pulled out the Beretta, rechecked the clip, keeping it held in one hand. "Well, he didn't exactly have the best social skills for someone in the food and beverage industry."

Twisting in his seat, Roger faced Greg, his expression hard. "Now, you are to observe from a distance, alright? Do as I say every single step of the way, understand?"

Greg nodded solemnly. "Yes sir."

"Are you wearing your vest?"

Greg nodded yet again. "Yes sir."

Finally satisfied, Roger nodded back and they stepped out of the car.

Once inside, they went over to the elevator, Roger pushing in the button for the fifth floor. After five minutes and no elevator, Riggs gave an impatient shake of his head.

"Rog, I don't think this thing is working."

"Great… just great," Roger muttered. "Now I have to drag my ass up five flights of stairs?"

"Hey, look at the bright side. You won't have to go to the gym this week."

They made their way up the stairs, Roger grumbling under his breath the whole way. Reaching the top, Martin opened the stair well door, easing his head out slowly. "It's all clear," he whispered. They moved quickly down the corridor, heading for Bernard Simmons' apartment which was located in the middle of the hall. Riggs slid quietly into place on one side of the front door, Roger in position on the other. He drew his own gun, motioning for Greg to step back even further. After a quick nod to his partner, Roger rapped on the door with the gun barrel.

"Bernard Simmons, open up! LAPD!" No response. Roger knocked again, louder. "Open up! LAPD!" He glanced to Riggs, eyes narrowing at the faint shuffling they heard coming from somewhere in the apartment.

Riggs gave a sigh. "Look, BERNARD, let's do this the easy way, alright? Unless you actually enjoy getting your head cracked open, you'll get out here. We need to have a talk."

No response.

"Brother…why do they always make us break the door down?" muttered Roger in aggravation.

Martin gave a shake of his head, one hand reaching for the doorknob, when his eyes widened. The clicking noise was so soft, so barely perceivable; it would be easy to think one had imagined it. But Martin knew that he had not and pressed himself back against the wall just as the door blew outward. Greg jumped in surprise, placing both hands over his ringing ears as the deafening noise rippled down the hallway in waves. He stared at the large opening that had inexplicably appeared in the center of the door.

"SHIT!" Roger exclaimed, then turned, grabbing Greg by the arm. "You all right?"

"I-I-think so."

Martin threw a hand out, a frown appearing on his face. "Hey, what about me? I was the one closest to the door!"

"Riggs, don't be such a crybaby. You can take care of yourself."

"Oh, nice to know how much you care." He pointed to the ragged hole. "Damn double-barrel shotgun. Woulda cut me right in ha—"

Roger rolled his eyes, lips pursed together tightly. "Are we gonna stand out here and argue or are we gonna go in and get this asshole?"

"Don't worry," replied Martin, "I'm all for getting the asshole." He gestured with the Beretta. "Greg, you stay put."

Greg nodded earnestly, his expression tense. "Should I go to the car and call for backup?"

Martin stopped suddenly, head swiveling around to latch his steely gaze onto the young man. "Backup?" His excited tone of voice had turned icy. He gave a shake of his head, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I think we've got it covered." Then without another word, he threw a shoulder against the door, knocking it open.

He barreled into the apartment, Roger a step behind, and the two flatten themselves against the wall, eyes going over everything in a quick glance. The place looked as bad as the outside of the building did with holes punched into the filthy walls and debris littering the floor. And it was empty. Glancing at his partner, Roger pointed towards the back. Riggs nodded and they proceeded down the hall. Working quickly, both men swept through each room but came up empty handed each time. After a minute, the two of them reached the last room at the end of the hallway, its door shut tight. "End of the line," Riggs muttered under his breath. Gave a quick glance to Roger. "You ready?"

Roger nodded and Riggs took a step back, one leg flying upward, kicking in the door. The small room was empty. "Goddamn it!" shouted Riggs. He jerked around quickly as Roger grabbed his forearm and pointed to a small opening in the far corner knocked through the wall into the adjoining apartment.

"He's more slippery than I expected," Roger said with a shake of his head.

"Well, he's either already out of the building or he's holed up in the apartment next door. I'm going this way," Riggs pointed to the hole. "You head back to the front. Maybe we can sandwich him in."

"Riggs, y' sure about that?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course I am. See ya in a minute." Martin crouched down as Roger raced back through the apartment. Reaching the front door, he hesitated for a brief second, and then stuck his head out.

"Well, hello, Mr. Detective," a voice snarled out. "I've been waiting for you."

Roger froze; his heart sinking as he looked into the hallway. The bartender had already come through the other apartment and was now holding Greg in front of him, pressing the barrel of the shotgun under the young man's chin. Greg stared at Roger, his terrified eyes the size of saucers. He swallowed hard but didn't say a word.

"Get your ass out here right now or he's dead!"

Roger slowly stepped out.

"Throw the gun down now!"

Roger hesitated, eyes glancing around, trying to think of something—anything—to end the hostage situation quickly. "I said NOW!" Damn…. Nothing came to his mind. Sighing, Roger dropped his Smith & Wesson onto the stained carpet.

Bernard pulled Greg even closer against him, eyes skittering around wildly. "Where's your partner?"

"Ah… well…" Roger's own head swiveled around as he glanced over each shoulder. "I'm not exactly sure…"

"What do you mean you're not sure?" The bartender's voice raised another pitch, a hysterical note underlining his words. Roger's mouth set into a thin line. Bernard was about to fall apart. He was so jumpy, Roger was afraid the slightest provocation would set off his trigger finger. And Riggs's conspicuous absence was only serving to make him more edgy.

Roger spread his hands out, his expression calm. "Look, just take it easy, okay? No one's trying to do anything here. My partner just tends to wander sometimes. He's kinda odd that way."

Bernard took a couple steps back, pulling Greg with him. His face twisted as he pushed the barrel deeper into his hostage's throat. "You better hope he doesn't try nothing or your little friend's head won't be attached to his body any longer."

Roger nodded sincerely. "I understand—don't worry." He watched helplessly as the man began to slowly drag Greg down the hall. Roger took a step forward, following the pair, looking for an opening to try something and hoping—praying—Riggs wouldn't suddenly pop into the hall, which would surely send Bernard right over the edge. Somehow they had to bring this nutso down before he was able to get into the elevator. Once he was outside, they'd have a REAL problem on their hands. Where in the HELL was his partner? What was he up to?

The three of them continued to creep along when suddenly Roger caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could register what was happening, a single gunshot exploded near his head and he watched as the bartender fell to the floor, Greg landing on top of him. Looking over his shoulder, Roger stared briefly at his partner standing behind him in the hall, Beretta still drawn, and then jumped over to the figures lying on the floor. He disentangled Greg, pulling him free from Bernard.

"Are you okay? Oh for the love of God, tell me you're okay." His hands patted the young man down. "Any bullet holes?"

"No," Greg answered, his voice shaking. "I'm…I'm not hurt…"

Riggs stepped over them, kneeling down by the still bartender. No point in checking for a pulse. His bullet had hit the man square in the throat. "I TOLD you to open the door," Riggs muttered under his breath, then glanced over at Roger, shaking his head as he stood back up. Roger helped the shaken Greg to his feet.

"Damn it, Riggs! That was a big fucking risk! You could'a shot Greg."

Riggs's eyes narrowed slightly. "I _always_ hit what I'm aiming for," he replied matter-of-factly, then turned to face Greg. "You're sure that you're okay?"

The young man nodded, smiling weakly. "I'll be all right."

Riggs nodded back, his serious expression lighting up some. "You're not going to sue me for emotional trauma are you?"

Greg gave a small laugh. "No."

"Good, cause all I got is a pickup truck, dog and ratty ole trailer."

Roger sighed as he glanced around. "Guess we better get on the radio and call the cleanup crew."

"Yeah... I'll do it." Riggs answered. "You two can stay with the body." Turning around, Martin started to head down the hall, but stopped suddenly, turning back around to face Greg. "Quite a finale to your week wasn't it?" he questioned.

Roger looked over at the officer, his expression growing worried. "So, have we made you regret your decision to become a cop?"

Greg stared silently at both of them for a long time, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"Geez," muttered Martin, "don't keep us in suspense like this." He turned to Roger. "You just HAD to ask him that question, didn't ya?"

"Maybe ignorance is bliss for you, but I want to know the answer."

Greg grinned. "Don't worry. I still want to be a cop."

A relieved look spread over Roger's face. "Glad to hear it."

"As long," Greg added, his voice serious, "as I'm in another division."


End file.
